


The Two of Swords

by starswan



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Angst, Dancing, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotionally Repressed, I am a HORRIBLE PERSON, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Lost Hope, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, beautiful pain, dreams that are not dreams, early days of enchantment, enchanted sweets, euphoria, magical imprisonment, memory lapses, naughty fairies, poor poor stephen, psychological horror mild, sensitivity to magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-07-16
Packaged: 2018-04-09 13:45:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4351079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starswan/pseuds/starswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gentleman with the thistle-down hair torments the living hell out of Stephen Black. Stephen does not altogether mind though. This starts during the first month of Stephen's enchantment when he can't always quite be sure what is happening to him and things just escalate from there... (This is probably(?) more Book!Gentleman though, to be honest, it is not hard to confound the two when he is being particularly menacing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two of Swords

Stephen Black awoke at No 9 Harley Street to a watery sun vainly peering into the high, dusty window of his small room. The room was somewhat more long than it was wide and the ceiling curiously far from the ground. It often made him feel, as he was positioned at his desk going over the day's business, as if he were seated at the bottom of a well. He usually made a point of having another one of the staff bring in a ladder to dust. Or else he did it himself, but he was ashamed to admit that keeping the high, round window free of cobwebs and indeed the things in his room in proper order had quite flown out of his head as of late.

In fact, he had the devil of a time getting any one of Sir Walter (or the recently married Lady Pole's) servants to do much of anything without repeated reminders. It was not a thing that he was accustomed to. Most servants, having been in his employ for a few brief hours did not question his authority, nor forget their duties, such was his bearing and his ability to command others who, though they might at first object, found him altogether too reasonable, practical, and inherently pleasing to disrespect being so well-formed both in mind as well as in body.

Stephen would have been quite surprised to discover that a few of the servants even speculated that he was secretly a prince from a foreign land merely pretending to be a servant in the house of an English Minister. Why someone would pretend to be such and would work the long hours of a servant no matter how distinguished and singled out they might be among their class when they could be presently ruling their own kingdom never seemed to enter their minds.

 

As Stephen lay in bed beneath the soothing warmth of his large quilt, his feet began to ache. His calves were sore, and he had the distinct impression that he had very recently been talking to someone, or that he had been in a room full of chattering someones. He felt vaguely sticky as if he had gone for a brisk walk and then gotten into his night clothes and into bed without bathing. Besides the uncanny, chaotic, somewhat _embarrassing_ dreams he had been having lately, Stephen's fastidious nature made him chastise himself for evidently falling asleep in the middle of some late night duty without tidying his person beforehand. Though he could not for the life of him recall what he had been doing so very late and with whom.

Ever since that one evening around a month ago when Lady Pole had hosted an elaborate, festive dinner party attended by most of the luminaries and high society of London, there had been scarcely anything afoot at the house out of the commonplace. Oh, to be sure, there was some agitation amongst the servants though Stephen scarcely paid what they said any mind. And Lady Pole certainly did not feel like either hosting or attending any more dinner parties.

In fact, Lady Pole hardly ever stirred from the Venetian drawing-room anymore except to eat, attend to her toilet, and to sleep. Few of the servants willingly entered the room with its large, dour paintings which were sparsely illuminated by a chilly northern light giving it a perpetually overcast feel. Her ladyship rarely complained of its spectral chill though she always wore a shawl and a solemn expression, her icy white fingers the only things that could be seen to move on occasion.

Hardly anybody stirred anymore in a manner that could be called remotely festive or cheerful.

 

But in this he was surely wrong. There had been quite a bit of excitement lately, hadn't there? Stephen raised his arms above his head to shade his eyes as if the dark could conjure back the previous night. If only he could recall. It seemed somehow urgently important that he should.

_Well, might as well get on with the day and stop malingering in these pointless thoughts._

 

Stephen sat up slowly, placing his sore feet flat on the cool stone floor. He barely had time to enjoy the sensation when he was gripped by a queer feeling of moving very rapidly to the side even though he remained firmly seated on the edge of his bed. There was a sharp pain on one side of his head, and the sound of a distant bell.

Images flickered in his mind's eye, like things half-remembered rather than dreamt. A large, dim hall in a low ceilinged room, except, no, the ceiling was high and bright and lit by tallow candles with a pervading, eerie blue light. But was the ceiling high and airy or low and earthen? Or both? A ballroom, violins and a flute and somebody tall and thin with a mass of silver hair presented itself to him. Laughter. The press of strangers in beautiful attire in an array of impossible colors and textures swaying in a melodious breeze; a circle of dancers of which he was a part. He heard someone beckon to him from across a checkered, marble floor that looked both well made and very ancient. One moment Stephen heard their silky voice, scarcely more than a whisper that carried across the airs like wind rustling leaves, the next they were right beside him. A wave of anxiousness swept over him and he felt a twist in his gut before stumbling to the foot of the bed where he inelegantly emptied the contents of his stomach into a chamber pot.

Stephen calmly cleaned himself up and dressed smartly and efficiently in the usual way resolving to get on with the day as if the disturbing recollections of the morning had never transpired. Doing up his cravat with precision soothed his ailing mind a smidgen. Try as he might though, he could barely rally to the usual tasks of chivying the servants out of their recent fretfulness and arranging meals and shopping. Everything around him seemed to have taken on a rather dull aspect.

The Wintry weather was a bit more forgiving today and the sun was actually visible in the sky which was a pale blue rather than a somber charcoal heavy with the threat of snow, but this did not cheer Stephen; he felt so very tired. After he had sorted things back at the house, he decided to avail himself of the freedom of the town for a stroll (stretching his legs would no doubt be better than sitting or standing still which might make them feel more stiff in the long run). Perhaps he would pay a visit to some of his friends such as Lord Castlereagh’s valet, the Duke of Portland's coachman, or simply go have a solitary pint of ale at the club he habitually frequented only a month ago.

 

The afternoon must have progressed a good deal more than he had reckoned upon quitting Harley Street, closeted as he had been in the dim, narrow servants' hallway that bridged the kitchens and his little room, as well as the labyrinth of his thoughts and feelings, for barely any twilight remained. He was busy contemplating this sorry turn of events (he had missed the only vaguely sunny day in weeks!) when he turned a corner adjoining Oxford Street and found himself in a thick wood. Pine needles and oak branches brushed his face as he attempted to regain the path. But this could not be right. No park nearby was this large and dense, not for many miles, and to be so clearly thick with leaves in the midst of Winter! He turned around, but could not spy any familiar landmarks. Most of the street lamps had gone and he was plunged into relative darkness though he could just make out that he was at a crossroads. How on earth was he supposed to find his way back? Should he choose a path and continue or perhaps wait to see if this was some perverse fancy of his imagination that would dispel itself shortly?

Before he was able to properly panic, he felt a pressure at the front of his head and words form in his mind like a caress.

_Stephen. Look at me._

Stephen was summoned from his thoughts by a lithe shape standing less than five feet away leaning speculatively against a large,lovely hawthorn tree redolent with blooms of the palest pink. His arms crossed in front of him and Stephen was under the impression that he had been silently regarding him for some time.

This gentleman was astonishing to behold as he had a mass of silvery hair upon his head, a long elegant figure, penetrating blue eyes, and skin that was dazzling in its whiteness. He was as pale as Stephen was dark and in the low light of evening he positively glowed. Stephen suppressed a gasp.

A sudden lightness of mood stole across the surface of Stephen's mind as if he were awaking from a heavy sleep and he exclaimed to the gentleman with hair like thistle-down, "It is _you_."

"Why, of course it is _me_ , Stephen!" he cried, his voice seeming to burble up from the earth itself. He stepped gracefully down from his perch and proceeded to step right into Stephen's personal space, linking an arm in his, going from somewhat discomfited to quite familiar and salubrious in the span of a moment. "I thought that I would take the time especially to escort you to our revels this evening, " he pronounced acting for all the world as if this was the highest compliment that he could have paid to any one.

Stephen, sensible that it was now his turn and thus good manners to respond remarked, "Of course, sir. As have I, though I must say, I am a bit fatigued from dancing all of these nights together."

The pair had begun to walk deeper into the shifting wood though Stephen did not trouble to see which way they had turned. The trees grew larger, blocking out more and more of the night sky and seemed possessed of a watchful intelligence suffused with a vague air of dislike. The gentleman paused and turned shelteringly to Stephen as if he would protect him from their intrusive influence. He cupped a cool hand to the side of his face allowing his thumb to brush his cheek slowly.

"Though it has scarcely been a day, I have been so impatient to see you again, my friend," the gentleman breathed.

Stephen felt a curious tingle creep up the side of his neck accompanied by another odd,unnerving sensation. A burst of memories flooded his human brain. It could be that he had forgotten for a moment to breathe. _Why could I not remember having met this gentleman when I know him so well?_

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair, as if suddenly registering what Stephen had said earlier replied, "Oh! That is merely the heaviness of that dreary place you are suffered to return to each morning imposing its horrible, Englishness on your noble frame! It will no doubt evaporate and you will feel as light as a feather once we set foot again in Lost Hope. Fear not, my dear Stephen." The gentleman said all of this whilst gesticulating with his long, thin fingers.

 _And where is 'Lost Hope'?_ wondered Stephen for it all seemed so terribly familiar now. And how could he have forgotten someone so striking in his mannerisms, so stunningly beautiful? That last train of thought had slipped out from some corner of his mind before he could stamp it down and he felt himself blushing under the layers of his dark skin, hopefully invisibly. Noticing this in his uncanny way, the gentleman's face lit up in a huge smile that was as delighted as it was vaguely unsettling. He eyed Stephen appreciatively as a magpie might eye a string of pearls or diamonds or else a juicy piece of fruit left out on a kitchen counter beneath an open window.

 

* * *

 

What transpired next is difficult to surmise for Stephen once again awoke in his bedchamber shortly after cock crow. His legs were not quite as sore as they had been previously, but this time he was lying on top of his bed linens still fully-clothed. His head was swimming as it had been the morning before.

 

"What in the world?" he exclaimed to himself as he leaned forward disgusted that he had been so careless with his person. What would Sir Walter think if he could see him in this state? He relied upon him, far more than usual lately to keep his affairs in order. Sighing, he rose, and regarded himself in a long, oval mirror opposite, beside his chest of drawers.

 

Something else looked out of place.

 

All of its own accord, Stephen's right hand flew up to touch his lips and remained there for some moments. They felt ever so slightly swollen and tasted of some cross between peppermint and licorice root. Instinctively, he pulled aside his collar and his cravat which was loose and gingerly undid a bit more of the clothing around his neck. Visible just above his collarbone was an array of smallish bruises. His shoulders felt as if somebody had handled him roughly. He pressed a spot on his upper arm and winced.

 

Stephen sat down on the end of his bed shaking slightly and still staring at his shocked visage in the mirror. New images paraded gleefully across his sleep-addled mind. Somebody had walked him home shortly before dawn. They were arm in arm and one of them, both(?) of them were laughing? There was some apology and an affectionate leave-taking all very polite and considerate and not in the least inappropriate to Stephen's mind, such as it was. There may have been a bit more hand holding, face stroking, and lingering stares than he would normally have tolerated from anybody else but…

 

* * *

 

 

Outside the night had been cold and clear, the stars bright and closer than normal. But within had been chaos. He and the gentleman had arrived at the house called Lost Hope and shortly thereafter, a mild clamor turned into a fracas! Various ladies had been ardent to dance with Stephen that night, some not wishing to take "No" for an answer before another's turn was up. Stephen had been passed repeatedly between three of them in particular who threatened to tear holes in the arms of his clothing in their enthusiasm. One wearing a dress composed of moonbeams during a partial eclipse the color of flowing blood showed her quite numerous and pointy teeth and made to bite Stephen. She was surprisingly strong and had grasped him with her spider-like fingers, and was angling toward his neck, when the gentleman with the hair like thistle-down appeared behind her and with a slight wave of his fingers sent her to the other side of the room. She stood glaring at him reproachfully whilst another statuesque, strikingly beautiful lady in a familiar, dark blue evening gown attempted to calm her.

The entire procession stopped dead and murmurs and looks of shock and embarrassment seldom seen in those elegant rooms traveled across the space, save for a small handful who appeared either bored or faintly amused by this riveting turn of events.

 

"…….. ! " and here she uttered a word in a language that Stephen could not understand. He realized that it must be the gentleman's fairy name.  "You always try to monopolize Stephen's time. It isn't fair! You promised to bring us more lovely partners with which to dance!" she spat out with a rather unbecoming, petulant scowl. It might have seemed humorous on the face of a grown woman had she not otherwise appeared so alien and terrifying. Her hair was midnight black and coiled in snake-like tendrils about her snowy face. Her lips were nearly devoid of color.

"My dear, I do no such thing. You and your sisters have quite had your fill of Stephen's esteemed company these many nights." He took a moment to brush off Stephen's clothing and to re-situate his collar and to fuss over his jacket before continuing. "He is my bosom friend and I shall do as I please."

Here the gentleman pivoted to face his cousin and his sparkling blue eyes grew rather dark, his long, thin eyebrows grew closer together, his lips curled, and his face looked like an approaching tempest all the more horrifying for its precarious silence.

The entire room remained hushed for several minutes, though it could not have been more than mere seconds, when his voice rose up not quite a purr tinged with fury. "You will comport yourself differently, my dear, _very_ differently, whilst you are here under my roof, in my house _,_ and you will never lay another hand threatening or otherwise on _my_ friend, Stephen. Do you understand?"

The young woman in the bleeding dress folded her pale, spindly hands and nodded her dark head meekly, albeit sullenly before the viols and pipe recommenced, and the incident was quite forgotten.

Unseen to Stephen, the elegant woman in the dark blue gown lead her furious companion whose eyes still blazed over to a long window and they put their heads together as ladies often do when they are about to confide privately to one another.

 

The gentleman turned his full, glowing attentions back onto Stephen drawing him to the side to a bench on the opposite side of the room, somewhat removed from the flicker of the tallow candles.

 

"Do you have many relatives, Stephen?" the gentleman asked in his more usual tone which was a shade lighter.

 Recovering himself from the recent spectacle, Stephen replied. "No, sir, I have not."

 "Well, then I dare say you are rather fortunate." And they sat down upon the bench, their knees touching.

 

Stephen was inclined to agree if one's relatives were so poorly behaved, but he still could not stop the bereft look that flitted across his features. He caught the gentleman's notice at once as solicitous as he was being to Stephen's every comfort.

 

"Oh, Stephen! But you look so sad all of a sudden!"

 

"I am sorry, sir. I was merely thinking about what you had just said…about having no relatives. Truly, I do not have anyone in London, nor anyplace else, whom I may call 'family'." And Stephen stared down at his hands neatly folded in his lap, a reminder of his difference, even here.

 

The gentleman took both of Stephen's hands in his. They were as cool as an icy lake, but far more gentle, and the shiver they occasioned was not unpleasant. He declared with great ceremony, "Well! How fortunate then that you now have me. Really, I wish you had said something sooner. No need to apologize, Stephen. No, indeed," he said forestalling the look of confusion and the hesitant open-mouthed stare that Stephen was shooting him that signaled his imminent protests.

"I feel it is my special duty this evening to discover something rare and uniquely entertaining to enliven your spirits!"

 "Sir, I, that is to say, thank you. You are being far too kind to me." Stephen finished, he felt, rather lamely.

 

“Ah! I have it!” said the gentleman excitedly, making some sort of sign with his nimble fingers.

 

Stephen could not have said how, but they were sitting at a long table elegantly done up and positively ablaze with candles and brightly colored dishes of some elaborately crafted desserts, if he were to venture a guess.

 

Before him was a confection of chocolate slowly melting along with some other ingredient that was purple and honey-tinged and giving off the scent of hundreds of orange trees in Midwinter. Stephen turned his head to the sound of liquid merrily splashing into crystal. A goblet was filling with a cranberry liquid, was that wine?, being poured by the gentleman who a moment ago had stood several feet away. He winked at Stephen and sat down in the chair beside him. The table was now half its size and the lighting a tad more intimate. Stephen was getting dizzy contemplating the minute changes that kept occurring to the room. Many windows lined the outside and he could make out branches and diffuse moonlight shining feebly onto the floor in the shadows of the few candles.

 

"It is…breathtaking, sir. What is this dish, if I might ask?"

 

"My dear Stephen! As ever, your manners do you credit! But there is little need to be so formal when it is just us and I have gone to great lengths to see you content, " the gentleman pronounced in high glee.

 

Stephen often lingered in front of a shop window near Piccadilly that sold exotic sweets, but of course he never entered or contemplated for a moment that it would be seemly for him to pop in and buy himself something as if he were some foppish sort of fellow who indulged his every whim. And yet he had always been curious to know how they tasted.

 

“You may try whatever you like,” the gentleman indicated as if sensing his hesitation, a feral smile playing on his lips.

 

Slowly Stephen relaxed a bit even as he was aware of the gentleman watching his every move with great interest. He sipped the wine and tasted various sweets which were alternately spicy and warm, cool and refreshing. After a great many sips of the fruity wine, his cheeks felt flushed and he felt lighter and happier than he had in a fortnight. The gentleman was leaning close as if to confide something and Stephen giggled. _Did that sound just emerge from him?_ A few more sips of the fairy wine and a couple more sugary desserts later including a cake that smelled like vanilla and apples and melted in his mouth like clouds and he was allowing the gentleman to spoon feed him some sort of tangy pudding.

 

"Mmm," Stephen tried to get out around a mouthful of something else exotic. "Thank you for this," he breathed appreciatively leaving out the "sir" for once in his present euphoria. This delighted the gentleman no end who was struggling to master some rather devious impulses now that he had a rather pliant Stephen blitzed on enchanted desserts and casting furtive glances in his direction in between bites. 

 "It is my exquisite pleasure, Stephen," he said, setting aside the spoon and sitting so close that he was practically in the other's lap.

Stephen sighed again happily and leaned against the gentleman who felt much warmer than otherwise. The gentleman enfolded him and they remained in that pose for many minutes, Stephen's skin thrumming where the gentleman caressed him, expertly running his long hands down his arms, his legs, with a subtle pressure that threatened to turn Stephen's mind to jelly. The gentleman turned Stephen carefully to face him and cradling his head in his tapered fingers, he placed a fervent, open-mouthed kiss to the hollow of Stephen's cheek. He trailed his lips down his jawline where he allowed his teeth to graze lightly before he resumed kissing down Stephen's throat and neck. 

Stephen was floating in sensations. He was still feeling light and warm and pleased by the confections, but now he was acutely aware of his own body and every place where the gentleman was touching him. A hand rested at his collar, then at his waist, his hip, his thigh. He shivered as the gentleman left kiss after stinging kiss on his neck, the fingers of one hand lovingly fondled his scalp, whilst the others inched slowly around to the inside of his legs. Any usual objections he might raise were smashed to pieces in the heat and swirl of his messy, pleasure-soaked thoughts. In the back of his mind unanswered, Reasonable Stephen was quietly fidgeting, faintly ashamed that he had allowed himself to be tempted with otherworldly treats and to, to, but what was that? He heard a moan escape his own lips.

 The gentleman ceased his languorous ministrations to contemplate Stephen's face with an enrapt expression, running his cool fingers over his lips as some sort of preamble to what, he dare not contemplate. But then he saw the gentleman's expression cloud over.

 Stephen was being helped up with remarkable ease and his clothes once again set aright and the gentleman stood facing him.

 "I have made a mess of you, Stephen,” the gentleman pronounced and it perplexed Stephen to state whether this was said with mild shame or a wicked sort of pride, his mind was so fuzzy.

 "Yes, sir," Stephen half-spoke, half-murmured trying and failing not to sound giddy. He leaned into the gentleman again who brushed his forehead with a sweep of his hand. Stephen's head cleared slightly and he felt a bit more like his usual self.

 "I quite forgot what a strong effect those delicacies can have on humans. I hope it was not disagreeable to you."

 If Stephen was not mistaken the gentleman looked sincerely vexed.

 "Oh, no, sir ! To be sure. I have never tasted anything quite like any of those things. It was…delicious," he remarked beneath lowered lids that unbeknownst to Stephen made him still more appealing to behold.

The gentleman's face cleared and he took Stephen’s arm in his. "I would not, in light of earlier events (and here he meant the fracas on the dance floor), wish to become a poor host. You see, I feel very warmly interested in you, Stephen. And I would not wish to do anything you would not exquisitely desire," he finished gently stroking Stephen’s chin.

 

"Of course, sir" Stephen uttered feeling distinctly disappointed.

 

* * *

 

Stephen lingered on the edge of his bed, awash in confused memories. It was as if there were two Stephens. There was Stephen here and then there was Another Stephen, elsewhere. Both were him, but that other one did things he could scarcely imagine or reconcile with his life as he knew it. He was not sure how he felt about it, how he ought to feel about it. The unearthly gentleman’s praises and gifts were a trifle overwhelming, and somewhat embarrassing. His manner simultaneously alluring and frightening. But Stephen would be lying to himself if he said that it was altogether unwelcome. He ran his fingers over his lips again. Licorice root and mint.

 

* * *

"I had it in mind, Stephen, I meant to confide to you earlier, to free you entirely of that wretched, unbecoming life you lead under the perfidious insistence of Sir Walter Pole!" said the gentleman with the thistle-down hair scrunching his face in disgust.

"But as much as I, as much as I am certain you too would desire that, Stephen, I have this feeling that your destiny is such that I ought not to remove you entirely from your human life. Not yet. Not until I better understand your future which I sense contains some lofty purpose more befitting your refined and noble beauty and your numerous talents."

 "If you say so, it must be, sir," Stephen replied who had by this time wholly given up insisting that he was born a servant, had lived a servant, and would likely slip out of this world and go to his grave as nothing more or less.

 "Let us return to the dance for awhile! Would you do me the great honor of being my partner, Stephen?"

 "Yes, gladly! But won't anybody mind?"

 "No, I think not. Why nobody would dare to oppose our wishes for fear of the consequences to their persons should they abuse my good nature! And I think that a little dancing would do wonders for your head, my gracious Stephen."

Stephen took the gentleman's proffered hand and turned to see that they were already back on the ballroom floor. He wondered if he was insinuating that Stephen was still a tad drunk. He was not sure why, but this discomfited him not a little. Stephen had never been in a situation where he could not hold his drink! He frowned slightly, when he was certain that the gentleman was not looking.

Other couples parted to allow them to join the circle though they remained a little out of it at the top forming their own circle of two, never switching partners. Some stopped and stood on the sides in frank admiration of the beautiful contrast the two made, dark and light, opposites intertwined in a twisting, delicate grace. The music quickened a bit and still they spun round, Stephen laughing again and feeling that same surge of unbridled joy as he was lead in delightfully dizzying paths by the gentleman whose satisfied gaze never left his for what seemed like hours and hours.

But all too soon, the light dimmed minutely, the music slowed to a few fluttering notes then devolved into a sort of background hum. Dancers departed on foot or melted into the shadows and still Stephen and the gentleman spun around slowly, pressed together in the dark.

 

* * *

Stephen returned to himself and the world again with a shock. He tried desperately to hold on to these lush recollections and to make some semblance of sense out of them. But despite his best efforts, or perhaps because he tried too hard, he forgot the night's events drop by glittering drop. Stephen drifted over toward his mirror as if it would give him some sort of clue, touching the surface, utterly cold and unyielding. The mundane half of Stephen's mind hastily buried his train of thought under a sea of impending chores and he slumped to the floor with his back to it, unwilling to move for many more moments.

 

 

The January weather had turned toward the dreary once more, and Sir Walter had hastened to quit the house for the day, remarking that it was unlikely that he would return until quite late. But would Stephen be sure to look in on Lady Pole and see to the dinner arrangements without troubling her for recommendations? Her ladyship's spirits were still in disarray and he did not want to ask anything of her that would cause her mind further commotion, not to mention the fact that Lady Pole's personal maid, Pampisford, was poorly and would usually otherwise check in on her lady and bring her tea in the afternoons.

It was rare that she and Sir Walter dined together anymore apart from breakfast owing to the fact that her Ladyship ate rather little and Sir Walter ate rather late and was continually taken up with affairs of the realm.

Between two and three o' clock, Stephen dutifully brought tea into the Venetian drawing-room and set the tray on a dark, wood table beside Lady Pole who was, as ever, staring out the window neither smiling nor frowning. She rarely spoke to anyone anymore save for Stephen and her maid, and occasionally, Sir Walter. Out of all of them, she communicated with Stephen the most. Theirs was generally a language of shared looks and clipped, verbal interactions.

Stephen bent low to arrange the things on the tray, knowing just how her ladyship preferred to take her tea, when she spoke.

"I saw you last night, Stephen." Lady Pole's voice sounded as if it had been dragged reluctantly up out of one of the forlorn, shadowy paintings that served as her constant, oftentimes sole, companions.

Stephen started, dropping a lump of sugar on the outside of her cup where it began to dissolve and to stick frustratingly to the porcelain. "I beg your pardon, my lady. You saw me, where, exactly?" Stephen expected to be returned a rather quizzical answer as Lady Pole was prone to speaking in bizarre riddles lately when she spoke at all, or else in being evasive, before lapsing into a protracted silence.

"I cannot speak of it," she managed wistfully. "You of all people should know that by now, Stephen."

"I, of all people?" Stephen was feeling distinctly uneasy about the territory into which their discourse was headed. "Forgive me, but what does your ladyship mean, precisely?"

Lady Pole gathered her shawl around her as if to soften the discomfort occasioned by her next words.

"You were… _"_ she began, but found it too difficult to finish. "I was never more surprised to see you so…and with _him._ " She ground out this last syllable with a peculiar amount of venom.

Her ladyship then proceeded to sip her tea without followup. Stephen waited in increasing anxiety wondering if he should take his leave of her or wait for a further comment. His pulse fluttered and he quite forgot how chilly it had felt in the room upon entering. He thought he could recall talking to someone pale, unearthly pale, with hair like...?

“We were so _what_ my lady? Pray be clearer. Whom do you speak of? Who is this person that you saw me with last night and why can you not speak of it?” he half-pleaded in quieter tones so as not to draw the notice of anyone outside in the hall.

Stephen kneeled closer when she turned her beseeching face to his. For a moment, Stephen thought that he glimpsed two of her ladyship. One was smiling cooly, wickedly and wearing pearls in her hair. The other was wan and disheveled and weighed down by unseen cares. Her voice broke the stillness of the room like a thunderclap.

 

"On the Eve of St. John, in seventeen-hundred and eleven, two gentlemen were traveling at twilight in a wood bordering the kingdom of Wales. They were tall and fair and wearing green, the color of ivy, and riding upon dapple-grey horses whose hair shone like moonlight and whose eyes burned like starlight. The winding, leafy path on either side of them was blanketed in roses both red and white blossoming out of briars that seethed and writhed within the soil like great serpents. They had not ridden two miles when they came across a distressed young woman by the name of Gwyneira who begged for their help as she was being pursued by strange huntsmen who were half-human and half-wild boar…."

Lady Pole seized his hand, squeezing until it pained him and he had to stifle a whimper. The Other Lady Pole smirked, her eyes laughing with malice to see his distress.

"….she spoke of broken promises and of silvered imps; lies and poisoned dishes, " she gasped. Stephen fetched her a glass of water from a side table eager to be further away. He was on the point of ringing for one of the other servants when she recovered herself.

Stephen regarded Lady Pole with growing alarm, and recognition. He had seen her somewhere last night, had he not, wearing a velvet gown of the darkest blue? He was on the verge of saying so when he felt suddenly cool and contemptuous. Stephen felt eyes spying upon them from somewhere in the room, though when he turned there was nobody else present. There was never anybody present in this room aside from Lady Pole and yet most people refused to enter it.

"Perhaps you should retire to your rooms and get some rest," Stephen suggested kindly. "A little rest might set you right again, my lady."

"I do not wish to sleep, " she hissed.

Stephen recoiled slightly. "But, my lady…"

Looking contrite, but still fierce, she amended, "I am sorry if I have disturbed you, Stephen. It was not my intention." When he caught her eyes, they had regained their former disturbing placidity.

Stephen rearranged the shawl upon her shoulders, and not wishing to further excite her ladyship briskly exited the room to look over some figures for Sir Walter.

 

Seeing Lady Pole that way, stepping inside that chill room, and participating in that strange conversation had left him feeling dull and heavy once more. He had awoken oddly cheerful though also on edge, but whatever had caused it had quite vanished. Stephen licked his lips.

 

 

* * *

Stephen sat at a desk in the narrow servant's hallway. It was carefully lodged within the interior of the house so as to allow access to its other major parts and so that Sir Walter and any guests could be waited upon with the utmost efficiency and discretion. Above his head was a line of bells for practically every room should someone have need of a servant at any hour of the day or night. Though the house had seemed to possess a great many more rooms lately, it still felt rather emptier and more somber than usual.

He could retire to the privacy of his room to attend to this current duty, but for some reason, Stephen did not wish to see his own reflection. The sight of his mirror bothered him. He was busy scribbling down numbers into columns and totaling various sums when a cool draft as if a wide window had been thrown open curled around his chair smelling of freshly fallen snow upon damp earth. He thought that he could hear the branches of a large tree curling around the house possessively, scraping the small window panes above him. Stephen shuddered, then resumed his summations before sighing and setting the pencil back down after a few moments. This was such weary, dull work and he felt more weary and more dull than ever! The eerie draft crept up behind him again and Stephen felt as if somebody were leaning over his chair. Two thin, ghostly pale hands appeared and covered his own making him jump up knocking the chair backward. He glanced all around him, but nobody was present.

Setting his chair upright, he sat back down upon it and resolved to finish his task. Stephen inwardly abused himself for succumbing to the sort of fits and frights recently reported by Lady Pole's servants about chills, haunted woods, and eerie music. As he drew long, elegant loops resembling numerals, the air around him grew warmer, his candle's flame burned brighter and his mood lightened by degrees. He felt as if he were seated outside in the sunshine on a long day in the middle of Summer with midges and tall grasses and dragon flies lazily drifting past. The facts and figures beneath his fingers became child's play, his pencil flying across the page. He finished his work in half the time, and set about getting far ahead with the planning of the expenditures. He embarked on a mad plan to project future spendings for the following year!

When Stephen reckoned that he had done enough (it was nearly evening), he returned cheerfully to his room. He opened the door, went to close it again behind him and found himself facing someone.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair stood beside his bed and had beamed when the door opened and Stephen had walked through it.

"Have you finished your most pressing duties, Stephen? I must say, this is a tiny little room for one as handsome and regal as yourself. I could, perhaps, endeavor to fix it to better mirror your most estimable person. Oh!" exclaimed the gentleman now warming up for one of his verbal tears.

Stephen stood stock still unsure how to react. He was still in that twilight period between his regular, daytime, waking life and his nocturnal existence at Lost Hope with the gentleman and as such his mind was endeavoring to quickly adjust. He hoped that his surprise did not appear on his face for this man behaved like an old friend and Stephen would hate to think that he was now grown so dull and so stupid as to forget such an extraordinary looking person.

"I could use magic to make it appear larger on the inside! But only to you, my dear Stephen. I can only imagine the jealous fits of your wicked employer were he to uncover it, though I could indeed fit an entire palace within this cupboard of a bed chamber, if you so desired."

"That does sound rather nice, sir," he said musingly. "That warmth I felt earlier…"

Stephen was cut off from continuing as the gentleman had crossed the small room and gazed at him briefly before embracing him in a manner that brooked no refusal of his offered affections. The gentleman inhaled deeply, running his hands down Stephen's back just stopping at his waist. He gave a squeeze making Stephen jump slightly.

Afraid to move and tingling all over, Stephen managed to utter into his silvery hair, "Was it you, sir, that made it feel like Summer…?" He tried with effort not to squeak.

Backing away slightly, the gentleman replied with his usual enthusiasm, "Why, yes! I had hoped to help you with that awful pile of boring figures you were working on so that you might be able to come out with me that much sooner!"

"You are all kindness, sir." Stephen replied, his brain beginning to turn over thoughts in the wake of being held and caressed and…smelled. Something in his chest did a weird flip before he straightened himself and determined to maintain a reasonable frame of mind. He was going to continue being Proper Stephen for as long as he was able!

This resolution was short-lived, however, as the gentleman grabbed Stephen's hand and began to walk them rather energetically toward the opposite wall. Stephen made to yell as they were about to crash right into the oval mirror's surface when they passed through it as if stepping under a curtain of water. Stephen felt himself all over expecting to be wet and saw that they had alighted on the other side to some place quite eerie in its beauty. There was a meadow of blue-green grasses blowing in a gentle breeze beside a small lake bordered by tall, thin trees with silvery bark and long, thin pinnate leaves, painted a soft amber.

The gentleman was standing a few feet away with his eyes closed and Stephen got the impression that he was singing to the trees and that the trees were singing back. He could feel it in his head rather than hear it with his ears and it threatened to lull him to sleep, so deeply soothing was its cadence.

At length the gentleman returned and reached a hand down to Stephen. Stephen accepted his thin, pale fingers which curled around his own gently but firmly and the gentleman effortlessly lifted him up off the ground as if he weighed as little as a child . At the top of the arc as Stephen stood they were now in a room with a vaulted stone ceiling and a flagstone floor, a small hearth opposite contained a roaring fire of twigs.

Stephen gripped his head and tried to remain on his legs. "Forgive me, sir. We removed from that scene rather precipitously for my, no doubt, frail human senses."

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair took the opportunity to throw an arm around Stephen's middle in order to steady him and to direct him toward one of two chairs before the fire.

"I hope you did not mind the detour, but I was consulting with old friends who I thought might know where I could go to further divine the details of your specific destiny."

"And where are we now, sir?" he asked half-wearily.

"Why, we are back at my house!" The gentleman paused before continuing. "Though I confess I am not equal to supporting the company of my relatives this evening with my usually inexhaustible store of goodwill and selfless generosity. Therefore, we shall attend to only a few dances."

Stephen's mind woke up a little more from its intermittent slumber in the wood and the words of the gentleman clung to him like the gossamer strands of a silk worm or perhaps more like the peculiarly strong threads of a spider's web.

"Won't you be missed, sir?" Stephen wondered suddenly remembering the other night.

"Oh, perhaps. I do what I can for my guests and there is one lady in particular who is a recent addition to our festivities, but I think that she can manage quite well without me for one evening, at the very least," the gentleman concluded haughtily.

There was silence and then the gentleman added, "I sense that lately her ladyship has been a bit distracted and perhaps less desirous of our company. No doubt, it is that husband of hers bringing her quite low. He has employed various English physicians when there is nothing at all the matter with _her_! "

So her ladyship had indeed been there, had witnessed the commotion a few nights ago, and had been trying in her earlier frenzy to convey this fact to Stephen. But what had she been insinuating? It filled him with a mixture of shame and dread. Stephen’s tongue darted out to swipe his lips.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair ventured to interpret Stephen's puzzled expression.

"I see that you are concerned that the lady's husband and your (and here he paused with evident distaste), employer, is sure to find out. But nothing could be further from occurring for I have thrown a veil over his senses that prohibits him from exhibiting the least curiosity. …not that it was all that difficult. He seems rather indifferent to my lady's cares and more concerned with his career than ever before! We appreciate such a lady far more than he is capable."

The gentleman paused before adding with increasing fury.

"However, his continued existence means that I must be separated from _you_ half the time," he said extending a hand to rest on Stephen's knee. "If it were not certain to draw attention now that he has become friends with one of the magicians, I would snuff him out on the spot and remove any impediment to our further intimacy! I would so love to destroy the magician, the fussy, older one with his _books_ and his supercilious air who so rudely spurned my humble offer to assist him, then you and she could be happy at my house for all of time!"

 _But was there not only_ one _magician_ , Stephen wondered before exclaiming,"Oh! You mean to kill them, sir?"

 

The gentleman studied the crackling fire not making eye contact but tightening his grip on Stephen before replying. "I would do a great many things to secure your present and future happiness, Stephen. You have only to say the word and it will be done! I am certain that I can contrive some way to disguise the circumstances of their deaths. It will merely take a little time to figure out. And it would perhaps do the world a great service if such crude, clumsy, inelegant men were kept from taking up the title of ‘magician’."

"N-, I , that is to say. I do not think that that will be necessary, sir, but I thank you most humbly for thinking of me."

"I am certain I do not deserve any of this," he added in a whisper, on the verge of a crisis, not realizing that he said it aloud. This prompted the gentleman to turn his dark expression toward Stephen.

Up until now, Stephen had not felt so distinctly uncomfortable and distressed in the gentleman's presence. Was the malice surrounding the house merely a reflection of the gentleman's more dark, sinister facets?  He struggled to comprehend the gentleman's effusive attentions and kindnesses (as well as some other things that he dare not name) that stood in stark opposition to something altogether more grim and… _dangerous_.

_You have only to say the word and it will be done!_

The part of Stephen that delighted in dancing with the gentleman and securing his fond looks wondered that he should care terribly if Sir Walter were to perish tomorrow. The gentleman, did after all speak the truth. Sir Walter seemed to scarcely care about her ladyship's, or indeed _his_ , present sufferings, and the magician, well, Stephen had lately grown to loathe him considerably. Wasn't it he who had caused Lady Pole's current unhappiness?

"You deserve whatever delights I can dream up to bestow upon you, my tender-hearted, beautiful Stephen." The arm chairs that they had been sitting in a moment ago seemed to have fused to form a chaise as the gentleman was much closer.

"And I dare say, you prefer my company to that of hers lovely though she undoubtedly is?" the gentleman inquired suddenly.

 "Sir?" Stephen uttered, startled.

 "The enchanting Lady Pole, Stephen! You are friendly with her. I see you chatting occasionally, but you would much rather be here with me, would you not?" The gentleman moved his hand until it was resting on the back of Stephen's neck teasing the knot of muscles there.

"Yes!" Stephen hastened to reassure him, all over nerves.

Stephen did not quite know what the gentleman meant by his remark as he had no memory of ever speaking to Lady Pole whilst at Lost Hope. He had thus far only had occasion to speak to her whilst at Harley Street…

"I do not much like how one of my more misbehaving cousins has attached herself to her ladyship," he pronounced frowning darkly again.

The gentleman rose from his seat and Stephen felt the absence of his touch keenly.

"But I have not the time to spare for it now!" he said waving his hands dismissively. "I had much rather focus my attentions on you, my most excellent, patient friend." His expression took on a mixture of tenderness and undisguised ardor. He approached Stephen again and leaning over him regarded him hungrily whilst stroking the side of his face. Stephen could not stop a sigh from escaping his lips.

"What ever should we do this evening to occupy ourselves, my dear Stephen?" the gentleman mused drinking in the sight of Stephen beneath him.

Stephen felt light-headed as the gentleman drew closer still.

 

* * *

The following day and the day after were a rush of his daily duties at the house in Harley street. Stephen felt his daylight hours slipping away in a muted blur only to be gobbled up by the clear, impending night with its odd company and violent delights.

At Lost Hope, nobody gave him weird looks or gaped at his dark skin unless it was to admire him. Stephen smiled at these last thoughts, a rare sort of smile that nobody else saw aside from the gentleman. Just as nobody else, but the gentleman heard his laugh or could tease joy out of his otherwise, work-a-day, solemn, orderly form.

The time between nightfall and daybreak passed slowly with dining, dancing, and impromptu processions past innumerable windows crowded about with ancient trees and bizarre looking ruins. Stephen thought that he spied a door with a lock made of teeth and a hallway table comprised of human bones. There were spiral staircases leading upward to other floors and galleries or downward into a more profound blackness than the dimly lit corridors linking the various parts of the cavernous old, sinisterly aspected house in which they wandered. He was shocked at how truly malevolent parts of Lost Hope seemed as if it were in some way alive and brooding.

On more than one occasion, he thought that he saw Lady Pole walking with two other ladies. She wore a deep red gown edged with black, her eyes were lined with kohl accentuating their size and shape, and her skin shone like pearls. She caught Stephen's glance and looked vaguely frightened before redirecting a smile to her partners.

Stephen sometimes found himself quite alone in a particular room. He could not be sure when this was, whether it was during one of their processions through the house, a dinner party before the usual dancing, or some other time in the middle of the day when the gentleman with the thistle-down hair had decided to spirit him away before dusk.

The room was comprised of a cracked floor with bits of earth. There was a young tree growing in its middle, struggling to catch a few feeble rays of light emanating from the ceiling. Its shoots and leaves were of a pale, tender green, quite new and its trunk a slender, rich brown with attractively patterned bark reaching halfway to the roof. He felt a sympathy and a longing for that sapling as if they were one and the same. He liked to sit beneath it , heedless of the passage of time.

One evening, the gentleman appeared suddenly at his elbow as he was wont to do. "I am very pleased that you like it, Stephen. It is for you. I gave it a room of its very own so that I might look on its pure, tremulous beauty during the day when you are away from this place."

And in so saying with the most satisfied of smiles, before Stephen could express any one of his conflicting emotions, the gentleman made a sudden flourish and Stephen was dressed in a suit and breeches of the most beautiful, impossible shade of purple like the night sky at dusk.

The gentleman circled slowly around Stephen to admire his handiwork, his smile widening.

"I cannot bear to see you always wearing your somber work attire, so much like clothes of mourning, when you could be arrayed in colors befitting your beauty, Stephen. After all, you can wear those other, drab things in the day time when you are back in _that place_."

Stephen opened his mouth to utter his customary “Thank you, sir”, but the gentleman with the thistle-down hair silenced him with a cool finger to Stephen’s lips.

“We are such good friends now that I hardly think that will be necessary, Stephen,” he concluded with a look that was equal parts adoring and predatory. It sent an odd thrill through Stephen.

 

* * *

 

Another morning dawned cruel and cold, and Stephen found himself standing facing the mirror in his room. He was dressed in unfamiliar breeches and a very fine shirt of a pale blue lustre, but he was only partly attired, short a jacket. His waistcoat was half done up. He huffed, slightly annoyed.

Stephen felt that familiar disconnect between the past night's events and the impending day though he could remember them now with greater clarity, too much clarity. He had a strong impression of being made to change his clothes multiple times for some sort of event, of hands passing over him, of a mask being placed gently on his cheek and brow, of music pulling at his insides compelling his limbs to move, of his limbs intertwined with...  

He feared a closer inspection of his person and what it might reveal so he endeavored to get dressed hurriedly without pursuing those thoughts any further.

The room was brighter than normal and made his head ache. How late it must be already!

His thoughts were intruded upon by a polite rapping on the door.

One of the other servants entered. It was Robert. "Begging your pardon, Mr. Black, but Sir Walter asked after you. He wanted to know if you were feeling better, sir."

"Feeling better? What ever do you mean?!" cried Stephen in uncharacteristic alarm as something rather apparent had just occurred to him despite his best efforts to firmly ignore it.

"It's just, you've been ill for _days_ sir…" Robert informed him uneasily.

"Days! How many days exactly?!" Stephen replied all at once overcome. He placed a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes which began to sting.

"Please leave me, Robert,” he added in a shaky voice.

“Are you certain you won’t be needing anything, Mr. Black? Something for your head perhaps?” offered the elder footman kindly.

 “No. It’s…” Stephen trembled. “I will get ready and see Sir Walter presently."

He did not notice or hear as Robert murmured before closing the door, "I am certain there is no hurry, Mr. Black."

When he was certain that Robert had departed, he unveiled his eyes which were quite wet. He ran his tongue furtively over his lower lip and quivered to detect the familiar coolness and taste lingering there.

Stephen sat back down upon his bed and buried his face in his hands, past words ringing in his ears.

 

"Oh, Stephen! I have had the most delightful notion! What would you say to remaining here with me for a few days? I could so easily fool Sir Walter and his staff into thinking that you are taken ill. They will never think to disturb you, or to trouble about you. In reality, you will of course be quite happily here with me and all of our usual pleasures! You could spend time in the special room I set aside for you."

When his rousing speech failed to elicit an immediate reply, the gentleman added, his voice echoing as much in Stephen's head as outside of it, "Or you could spend time in mine…"

Stephen had stood in flustered silence and it was a few moments before he recovered enough to formulate a reply which, in anyone else would have caused the gentleman to become most murderously impatient, but which only endeared Stephen to him. He basked in the effect that he had upon his human friend the way that a cat  luxuriates in sun beams upon a window sill.

"But, forgive me, I could not neglect my duties for, for _days_!" cried Stephen warring between alarm at the very notion of malingering willfully at Lost Hope and the temptation of not returning to the low spirits occasioned by anything to do with his life in London which was nought but ashes, want, and ruin when compared to the splendor of his stolen nights abroad. Decadent and fearsome though they might be, he felt increasing pain at the separation, of being forced to return at the end of each night to his little room where he awoke all alone and unable to speak of what he had experienced.

The gentleman with the thistle-down hair, as usual, had won Stephen over to the idea in the end. Indeed, Stephen found it increasingly difficult to resist him, if he had been resisting at all, which truthfully he had not. That was a passing fancy of his daytime self. 

* * *

 

Weeks stretched into months and Stephen went through the motions of his day light hours with increasing lassitude and misery before anxiously turning in for the night only to find the gentleman with the thistle-down hair around a corner waiting. Or else he found himself already outside, a few feet away from the magnificent house with its low doorway and the usual faces to greet him and welcome him to the dance.

Stephen now remembered, each morning, in full detail, his nightly wanderings and the solid fixture of the gentleman in his mind, far more solid than the shifting greys and blues of his old life.

The prior night's recollections were an ecstatic, sharp relief of patterns, colors, candled reflections and familiar, albeit odd, faces. He wondered that he had been unable to recall them in the earlier days of his enchantment, so starkly did they contrast to what he was accustomed to in the ordinary world. 

Through it all, one in particular always stood out in the crowd and no matter who he was currently dancing or talking with, he always spared a look in Stephen's direction. Stephen had only to return the look with interest and in a moment, the gentleman would be standing beside Stephen, seated off to the side with Stephen, the other dance quite forgotten, running his long fingers up Stephen's arms, stroking Stephen's face, brushing Stephen's cheek with his lips, Stephen's lips with his lips.

Night wound down in the same fashion, with Stephen pressed into a corner of Lost Hope, or seated in his room just before dawn with him, or half-walking, half-embracing on an adjoining street as the gentleman's deep, measured kisses devoured Stephen's reason as well as his lips burning new paths in his mind, stirring a tempest of uncontrolled fancies and feelings.

“You are so very beautiful,” he would croon. And Stephen would return the kiss fervently. The gentleman always tasted faintly of peppermint with an undertone of licorice root.

On a recent trip to Brandy's in St. James’ St to acquire some groceries for the house, Mrs. Brandy (they seldom spoke anymore, he reflected distantly), had offered Stephen peppermint leaf remarking that it was quite nice paired with certain teas. But he humbly begged her pardon and acted so peculiar that she watched him leave, concern etched on her kind face.

Upon arriving home, he saw that it had somehow made it into his purchases along with other oddly named herbs and spices he had never heard of. (Doubtless she misinterpreted his refusal for not wanting to make frivolous decisions and had included them as gifts.) Stephen chucked the peppermint into a corner of the kitchen cabinets like a guilty secret, but early the next morning, he stole back into the kitchens, fished it out of its hiding place and stashed it in his room fearing that it might infect the rest of the household, or so he reasoned. In truth, he didn't want anyone else to have the taste of peppermint on their lips.

Stephen scarcely ever dreamed anymore. Lost Hope had become his dream or had his waking life become the lost dream? Once or twice when he had nodded off in the daytime, though to be sure he had never fallen asleep in the midst of his duties, he had had very odd, disturbing ones indeed. Lady Pole was dressed in finery and jewels, but her arms were bound by briars and her lips were sewn shut by creeping vines of roses both red and white, her eyes pleading. In another, he reached out for the gentleman and his long fingers sprouted ivy that wound around the pair of them binding them together tightly. Or else Stephen glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye, a train of ivy that connected himself and Lady Pole.

When Stephen was shut up in his room surrounded by rare and precious gifts, he reasoned that as his work demeanor wasn't the sum of who he was and as rarely anybody saw him when he was not, in fact, working, nobody could be said to see him at all! Not his friends at the club, nor Mrs. Brandy. Not even Lady Pole , who when in those rare moments seemed about to confide something important to him, saw him truly.

A phantom returned each morning to carry on with his human life.

Only the gentleman with the thistle-down hair saw Stephen Black now.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for making Stephen cry! Sort of. Not really. That fic stole a piece of my sanity. XD
> 
>  Musical inspiration/craziness:
> 
> Ode to Sleep by Twenty One Pilots. The lyrics and tone seemed crazily apt for Lady Pole and Stephen. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bBkgF_1ZDj8
> 
> Khachaturian, Masquerade Waltz. Though only four minutes long, I could and have listened to this on a loop. It reminds me of the dance everlasting.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCoLUMURunQ
> 
> Prokofiev, Violin Concerto No.2 performed by Janine Jansen(!!) (It is only 28 mins. You will not be sorry. It's shadowy beauty cannot be adequately described and she is simply incredible!)  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cuzsFa5l0d4


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